My head hurts so badly. Why does it hurt so much? I try to push myself upright, and the ground is so cold and hard. It’s so uncomfortable, but my head is too heavy and I slump against the ground.

Where am I?

I try to remember where I was. The sound of the carousel shrieking as it slowly turned from the wind blowing filters through my memory. The empty swings sway back and forth. The school playground is deserted. I thought everyone would be here today. But it’s empty. The first day of summer and not a soul is here.

I remember how I looked up and the sun was far off in the distance, but still in the sky. Didn’t they know we still had time to play? I’m younger than most of the kids, only twelve, but even the older ones usually play with me.

I sat on the swings for a while, I remember that. As the pounding in my head throbs harder I remember how the metal chains twisted and I let myself twirl on the swings over and over. I could wait for the other kids. I was sure they’d show up.

Did they?

I squint, trying to remember and I turn my head. My palms brush against the concrete floor, my cheek flat against the hard floor.

There was a man. He had a golf club and he needed my help. I remember how lost he looked. He said he hit his last ball into the trees and he couldn’t reach into the bushes.

My heartbeat quickens as I remember, and my body goes still.

I knew to tell him a lie. I knew to turn around and run when he tried to take my hand in his. But he looked so hurt when I tried to pull away. He was genuinely upset, and all he did was ask me to help him.

The thin branches cracked under my sneakers as I went into the woods, following him to where he thought the ball had landed.

I open my eyes and I can’t breathe.

He lied to me. My nails scratch on the ground as I clench them into fists and slowly look up.

No! Mommy, help me! Tears blur my vision of the cinder block walls.

No! This can’t be happening. I pull my knees into my chest and try to stand.

Why does my head hurt so much?

“Are you okay?” a soft voice asks from behind me, making me shuffle across the ground and push myself against the cold wall. It takes a moment for me to wipe my eyes and see him.

He’s just a boy.

His knees are knobby and he’s thin, but his shoulders are broad and he has a look about him that lets me know he’s older than me. There’s another look about him, too.

Sorrow and sadness cloud his eyes. Or maybe I just imagined it, because the moment my vision focuses, a hard expression stares back at me. He doesn’t move from where he is, crouching only a few feet from me.

“Where am I?” I ask him quickly. I don’t know where the words come from. I feel hot and cold, and I’m so confused. “I want to leave.”

He huffs and shakes his head at me, pushing himself up from the ground where he was and takes a step toward me. He’s taller than me. In that moment, he scares me.

“You can’t leave,” he says simply.

My face crumples, and I shake my head. “My mother will-”

“We’re stuck here!” he yells at me, the anger in his voice making me flinch. He stares at the wall behind me, his eyes flickering to the floor then back to me. “We can’t leave.”

As I start to protest, I hear a loud rough bark outside. It’s followed by a series of vicious barks that continue unceasingly. It makes me whirl around and face the only window. It’s small and rectangular, covered in filth and high up on the wall. There’s barely any light coming through. Maybe there’s a bush planted in front of it. I’m not sure, but at the very least I know there are dogs close.

“Don’t try to run,” the boy says behind me and again I turn to face him. Threats all around me, and it’s my fault. It’s all my fault. So stupid! I wrap my arms around my shoulders. “My mother-”

“Stop.” The boy gives me the command, and I do. I stop because I’m a good girl. I’ve always been a good girl, but look at where it’s gotten me.

It’s quiet for a while, and the boy takes another step closer to me. I don’t move. I don’t know what to do or where I am, but deep down inside of me I know this boy isn’t going to hurt me. There’s something about him. Something broken and scared and angry even, but it’s pure.

“What’s going to happen to us?” I ask him weakly.

“He won’t touch you. It’s not about you.”

“What?” I don’t understand. I’m so confused.

“He’s using you.” He looks past me, anger evident as he clenches his jaw. “It’s about him making me do what he wants. He knows I won’t...,” his voice drifts off, and the anger changes to something else. Something I can’t see because he turns away from me.

I reach out to him, grabbing his arm to keep him from leaving me, moving purely out of instinct. The touch feels like a spark. As if I’ve put my hand to a flame, but before I can even process it, he whips back to me, a scowl of anger on his face as he stares at me. “I won’t let him hurt you like he does me. All you are is a tool for him to use against me.”

He takes another step closer to me, and it’s the first time I really get a good look in his eyes. The intensity almost makes me scoot back, but then I’d be against the wall. Trapped and cornered.

He parts his lips to tell me something, but no words come out. Time passes, and the only thing I can hear is my heartbeat as he stares at me. His eyes won’t break from mine, and I’m too scared to look away.

“I’m sorry,” he says flatly, but then he turns away as if the sentiment were genuine.

For some reason, just hearing those words is what breaks me. The tears fall and as I wipe them away, he looks at me with distaste. I half expect him to tell me to stop, but he doesn’t.

I struggle to calm myself and somehow I do. Maybe it’s because I don’t really believe him. I don’t believe it’s hopeless. My mother will find me, and she’ll make that man pay for what he’s done. Both to me and to this boy. I know she will.

“What’s your name?” I ask to keep him from leaving me as he turns. I lick my lips, tasting the salty tears and wiping my cheeks. I don’t want to cry. I want to get out of here.

“J-” he starts to answer me, but we both whip around and face the door as it opens, silencing us and making me instinctively back away. I grab onto the boy’s arm and force myself behind him. I don’t know a thing about him and the look he gives me nearly makes me run from both him and the man stalking into the room, but I don’t get the chance. The boy grips my wrist with his other hand and pulls me closer to him, my front to his back and my back to the wall. He keeps himself deliberately positioned in between me and the man.

It’s only when I grab onto the boy, my small fingers digging into the rough denim of his jeans at his hip and my cheek pressed against his back, that he lets go of me.

---

The boy may scare me some, but the man terrifies me.